Almost Home
by truhekili
Summary: Set about 13 years after the season 5 finale. What happens to Alex and Izzie's marriage? Disclaimer: I own nothing, and do not profit from this work. Shipper: alex/izzie.
1. Chapter 1

More than anything, she remembered the waiting.

Checking her watch again, she fidgeted in her chair, scanning the familiar office. It suited a Neurosurgeon at a big hospital like Seattle Presbyterian, its rich furnishings framed by a wide wall of windows. She spotted the quirks immediately though, an Anatomy Jane doll perched on a shelf, a kidney in a jar, a photo of two pretty young girls with their father.

"Hey, guys," Dr. Meredith Grey-Shepherd said, breezing into the room as she piled several thick folders on her desk. "Sorry, I'm late, I had a consult that took longer than I expected." "That's fine," Izzie insisted, "we know how busy you are."

Meredith returned her smile, her fingers closing on a large file on top of the unruly stack. "We'll," she said, "I had Derek double check the brain scans, and had our hematologist review the blood work." Izzie inhaled sharply, slipping her hand into Alex's as she listened closely.

"You're test results are good, Alex," Meredith announced. "You're close to remission. There's no new evidence of brain involvement. The new chemo's stabilizing your blood cell counts. I even had Cristina evaluate your heart activity," she noted, suppressing a grin as she watched him grimace. "She said Izzie's going to be stuck with you for a long time." "Sounds like Yang," Alex muttered.

"Really?" Izzie interrupted, gripping his hand tighter without even noticing, "it looks that good?" "So far," Meredith nodded. "You've still got at least eight months of infusions to go," she noted, glancing reluctantly at Alex, "and I'll want to see you every month while we're doing those. But I think they're working." "That's, fantastic," Izzie said, exhaling deeply. "I mean, I was sure he was doing fine, but it's so nice to hear it from you."

"I get it" Meredith added warmly, "and I wouldn't want you going to anyone else. "I have to bake something," Izzie exclaimed, turning to Alex, "for Mere's anniversary party, to celebrate." "Iz…" he said, placing his hand on hers before Meredith broke in. "That's great, Izzie," she said patiently, "but nothing elaborate, okay, it's just a small gathering.

"Oh, I know, I'll keep it simple" Izzie acknowledged, already planning the desert menu as Meredith's pager beeped. "I need to get down to the ER," she noted, standing abruptly, "we've got a head trauma coming in. "Of course" Izzie said, springing up to embrace her before they left. "I'm just, thank you, thank you so much."

"Izzie," Meredith giggled, returning her hug, "I didn't do anything. I just reviewed some scans." "Sure," Izzie insisted skeptically. "But we'll definitely see you and Derek for the party." Meredith watched Alex closely as he stood, much too slowly, but wearing a lazy smirk when he finally straightened up.

"I'm just going to drop this off with the receptionist," Izzie added, heading for the door with a small, neatly wrapped package. Alex nodded, watching his whirlwind of a wife pass through the door. "What did she mean by simple," Meredith asked warily, "are we talking a seven course dessert or something?"

"Probably," Alex admitted, enjoying Mere's horrified expression. "I'll see if I can talk her down to five." "You do that," she added, a stern frown replacing the glint in her eyes. "Are you doing okay with the side effects?" "Yeah," he said quietly, glancing at the door. "She just worries" Meredith teased, "I think she has a thing for you."

"I think she can't take much more of this," he stammered, his voice wavering. "This?" Meredith asked carefully. "This," he said, motioning around her office, "it reminds her of all that crap she went through…" "Alex," she interrupted, "this isn't like that at all. The chemo's working, and you're going to be fine."

"She's just, you know," he swallowed, "because it's cancer…" "I know," she said. "But you're doing fine now, and she'll be fine." "Yeah," he mumbled, staring at his shoes, "I just, if anything happens…" "The chemo's working, Alex, you're too stubborn for it not to. And remember, I want to see you every month," she insisted sternly. "I know where you live." "Every month" he repeated, rolling his eyes and flashing a crooked half smile as he turned toward the door.

It was late afternoon when they arrived home, time enough for Izzie to rattle through the kitchen cupboards and pantry, eagerly scaring up ingredients for her recipes, and filling out her shopping list as her tea brewed. Meredith might want a small party, but ten years of marriage was something to celebrate, and nothing said love like frosting.

Picking up her mug, she went into their living room, grabbing the television remote as she sank into the huge, sinfully plush leather sectional beside Alex, folding her legs up underneath her. He was already asleep, curled on his side as the sports scores flickered across the screen. Reaching behind her, she retrieved one of the blankets she'd placed along the back of the sofa, gently tucking it around him.

Switching to the evening news, she watched absently as she stroked his hair. That had been one of his first jobs as her husband, to shave her head when she waged her own war. She remembered it vividly, her golden curls clinging to the dashing tuxedo he wore the day he joined his future to hers, whatever it might bring.

He would not lose his hair, though. The disease invaded only his blood, and his chemo was far advanced from what she endured. He didn't suffer the wracking nausea or fevers she recalled so keenly. He was exhausted, always, by the chemical warfare raging in his veins, and over the past year wore layers of heavy fleece even in mid summer. But he would be Alex again, when the infusions finally stopped, and the toxic drugs cleared his body. He would be fine; she would accept no other option.

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Three days later, Izzie watched amused as her final patient for the day slipped off her jacket and hugged her arms around her stuffed bear. "Haley," Izzie said, "it looks like you're here for your flu shot." The girl flinched, clutching the bear tighter. "What's his name?" Izzie asked. "Timothy," she said, as if Izzie might snatch him from her arms.

"He's going to need one, too," Izzie added. "So he won't get sick. That way he'll be able to go to pre-school with you, and play with his friends, and go to parties. He likes playing with his friends, right?" "Yes," Hailey said shyly.

"And he probably doesn't like being sick, huh?" "No," Haley shook her head, wide-eyed again. "I bet he's scared, though. Do you think so?" Izzie asked. "He is," the little girl nodded seriously. "Maybe if you show him it's not so bad, he'd feel better?" "He'd like that," she nodded. "He wants to know if you give lolly pops."

"I do," Izzie said, "and good bears get to pick their favorite color." "Timothy's is purple," Haley reported, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath as the needled entered her arm. "All done," Izzie said cheerfully, "now take Timothy to the receptionist and tell her you both got your flu shots today, okay? She makes the lolly pops."

"Cool," Haley said, tearing down the hall. "You're great with kids," her mother said as she retrieved the girl's discarded jacket. "Whatever works," Izzie chuckled. "Right. How many do you have?" "Excuse me?" Izzie asked. "Oh," the woman replied, "I just figured you must have…" "No," Izzie said, "no kids."

"I'm sorry if I pried," the woman said. "You didn't," Izzie reassured her, "a lot of new patients ask me that." "Well, now I know why you come so highly recommended." "Thank you," Izzie said, smiling as she returned to her office, passing through a hallway lined with crayoned pictures and height charts and grateful letters from young patients.

She'd given, by her best estimate, a million flu shots that morning alone; it had already been a long day. Stopping at her desk, she sorted her messages and reviewed her calendar for the next day, the usual endless line-up of routine check-ups and shots, health forms to complete and diet counseling, and of course, Mrs. Olson, whose research brought her in regularly with a steady list of complaints, everything from gout and Ebola and rickets, to an occasional exotic rash, rarely visible to anyone but herself.

Gathering her coat and her purse, Izzie informed her receptionist she'd be gone for the afternoon, and drove hurriedly across town, relieved, at least, to be out of the office. Family practice had been the easier route after her own cancer, after nearly two years spent battling for her life. Surgery was hard core, she'd been told frequently, and was very high stress, and she'd fallen too far behind her cohorts on the surgical track.

They'd been buried in medical bills, too, and rent payments, and car repairs, and Alex's student loans. In family practice, the residency was shorter, the hours less grueling, the physical demands less taxing, the jobs plentiful. So now she gave flu shots, and filled out health forms, and counseled patients whose primary problem was an over-active internet connection. Some days, she was bored out of her mind.

Parking her car, she walked through the plaza, searching for building numbers and boarding the huge glass elevator. She gave her name at the office, and took the forms from the receptionist, perching on a hard plastic seat as she scribbled on the clipboard. "Thank you," the woman said kindly. "We know that this isn't an easy decision."

Izzie nodded blankly, handing her the clipboard as she left. She returned to the open air plaza, buying a decadent frosted latte and sitting near the sparkling fountain. She caught her reflection in the rippling water, annoyed to see her smudged mascara. She'd promised herself, when the final letter came, that she'd already shed her last tear over them. But some promises just couldn't be kept.

Fishing a handful of loose pennies from her purse, she launched a wish on each one, and pulled out her cell phone. Dialing her mother, she watched bustling shoppers peeking into windows already decorated with winter scenes, though it was scarcely fall. She sipped her drink, watching as distracted mothers pried their eager children from the toy displays.

Her Christmases had been nothing like that; her mother always told her to wait for Santa Claus to bring her the doll house with the happy family, and for her father, who might be by that year, with the red bicycle she always yearned for. But Santa never could find the trailer park, and neither could her father.

"Mom," she said, over the cheerful clatter in the background, "how are you?" "I'm good," Izzie replied, "I'm at the mall." "Yes I'm getting you a present." "No," Izzie laughed, "I can't tell you what it is. It's a surprise." "He's fine," she reported, "No, he's not with me." "Yes," she chuckled, "I know we got the lovers card."

They went on for nearly an hour, about crazy aunt Zoe and her three legged cat, about all the celebrity news, and the latest Elvis sightings, and a new neon green nail polish that promised healthier nails. When she finally hung up she shook her head in amazement, wondering what inch red heels her mother would be wearing when she was ninety.

Checking the time, she remembered that she wanted to get something for Meredith for her very belated anniversary party, for that, and for helping her with Alex. It had been typical Mere, to step right in and over-see his treatment. It was a good thing too, because if she'd tried to do it herself, he would have fought her every step of the way. "Stubborn jackass." she muttered, shaking her head as she wandered into a new house wares store.

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A week later, Alex sank heavily onto the bench at the front of the grocery, waiting as Izzie completed her shopping for Mere's party. He made it almost half way through the aisles this time, but the cavernous store was bigger then he remembered. He sat near three elderly men tending shopping carts, all, he imagined, waiting for their wives, too.

He'd tried to help her, until a five pound sack of flour slipped from his grasp, its contents spilling all over his sneakers; until the glaring fluorescent lights made his eyes bleary and unfocused, and the noise made his head spin. He watched the men beside him, wondering if their wives resented them for tagging along, or for being one more chore on their lists, and what they'd done with themselves, before they'd been benched like third-stringers.

He was a pediatric surgeon; not a great one, but he could hold a job; he was a husband too, not a great one, but good enough to buy her a ring, and pay for a house, and mow the freaking lawn, and make sure their car's tires were properly inflated, because she never thought of those things, and enough to make her laugh sometimes. And her beast was always well fed; at least, he'd never heard any complaints.

Not great, but almost good enough, until all the blood work came back. But pediatric surgeons have to stand on their own two feet, for more then twenty minutes at a time, and occasionally lift a patient heavier than a gallon of milk; and husbands have to earn, and houses don't take care of themselves, and wives shouldn't have to read tire gauges, and beasts starve when you can barely stay awake through the six o'clock news.

He watched Izzie approach with her cart, checking her list as she retrieved him. That had always been his job, too, loading the car: the flour and sugar; the milk and orange juice; the watermelons and oranges. He trailed behind her as she chattered excitedly, about the party, and three kinds of cake layers, and a cookie platter that was just the right size.

He nodded repeatedly, half-listening as he scouted out the bags with the little tea bags and the paper towels, the cereal and the bread, the napkins and cellophane wrap. She did that deliberately, he suspected, made some of them light enough so that he could pretend to be useful, while she shifted the bulkier items into their trunk.

He played along anyway, desperate to get out of the house, to get up off the couch, to go anywhere, really. She could probably finish her shopping in half the time without him, he guessed, buckling into the passenger seat and listening as she drove, going on excitedly about chocolate chips and pecans until she pulled into their driveway ten minutes later.

"Would you put these in the pantry?" she asked, motioning to the cup cake sleeves he'd stacked on the kitchen island as she dashed back out to the garage. It was her way of keeping him occupied, he knew, as she hauled in the heavier baking supplies. He stacked the sleeves in their usual places, piling the emptied shopping bags on the counter.

"That's it," she announced breathlessly, setting the last bundle down as she pulled out her recipe box. "I can't wait to get started on these. Mere's going to love them." "Remember, Iz," Alex said, "she didn't want anything fancy." "I know," Izzie chirped, "but these will be fabulous." "Any brownies?" he asked, poking his head into the last two bags.

"I will make you brownies," Izzie promised, "as soon as I get these into the oven. Now, take these bags and put them in with the recycling bin in the hall closet, please. They're in the way." Alex nodded, gathering them up from the counter and heading down the hall.

He was in the way too, he knew, and was being sent away, to the couch, or to bed, or to anywhere where he didn't have to struggle to stay up-right. His latest infusion had been less than a week ago, and he could still barely stay awake through the sports scores; he hated that she knew that, and that he no longer had the strength to fight her on it.

Depositing the bags in their storage bin, he retreated to the sectional as he turned on the television, searching for the football scores. Even the furniture was conspiring against him, he thought, as the plush fabric engulfed him, almost lulling him to sleep. He hated grocery shopping anyway, and Seattle's bitter cold weather, and Izzie's manic energy.

It drove him crazy, even as the small house filled with the heat and the aromas from the kitchen, and he heard her humming as she baked, and felt her drop into the seat beside him a few minutes later, placing a plate of warm brownies and a glass of milk on the coffee table. It drove him even crazier, that the brownies were his favorites, and the milk wasn't too cold, and he was already dozing off just moments after he finished them, and the news hadn't even gotten to the freaking weather.

It drove him crazier still, that her arms were already snaked around him, settling on the spare tire that clung to him since he couldn't run and he couldn't lift and he could barely drag himself off the couch, and that she'd already covered him with one of those warm blankets she could always fabricate from basically nowhere. It drove him even crazier, how desperately he hoped her arms would still be around him when he woke up.

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"You're going like that?" Izzie asked, wrapping her varied packages in delicately colored cellophane with silver ribbons as she loaded them into their old jeep. "What?" he asked, frowning. "You should wear a jacket with those pants" she replied, barely looking up.

"A jacket, for a barbecue?" Alex asked sarcastically. "It doesn't have to be a suit jacket," she said, shearing the edges of her bows.

"How about your blue one? That's casual." Alex nodded, retreating to their bedroom, while Izzie used the diversion to load the rest of the bundles into their trunk. Mere's house was usually warm, very comfortably so, but she knew he'd be cold if they didn't have a fire going. "Put these in the back seat, please," she said, pressing two loaded cookie plates into his hands as he returned, and grabbing the car keys as she went.

They pulled into Mere's driveway just ahead of Lexi and Mark, and Izzie greeted them warmly as she began unloading her packages. "Hey guys," Lexi said, "need some help?"

"Sure," Izzie said, pressing two baskets into her hands, and passing another to Mark, who was already toting three wine bottles. "Alex," she called, as he climbed out of his seat, "would you grab the plates from the back seat?"

Alex nodded, gnawing on his lower lip as he watched Mark and Lexi recruit Owen and Cristina as reinforcements. He hoped that no one would ask him how he was, with that look in their eyes, or notice that he wasn't the one driving, or offer to help him with the two small plates he carried, as if they held ten times their actual weight.

He caught Lexi eyeing him, and asked the first thing that popped into his head, anything to head off the obvious. "Hey," he said, glancing at their car, "you bring Emily?" "No," Lexi replied, exhaling in relief, "but I brought pictures. She's got two new teeth. She's very proud of them." "That's big," Alex agreed, following her up to Mere's front door.

Meredith greeted them, watching wide-eyed as they entered her kitchen with more additions the desert extravaganza. "Izzie," Meredith noted, "I thought we said this was going to be a simple gathering." "It is," she agreed, spreading decadent deserts across the huge kitchen island. Meredith raised her eyebrows at Alex, who shrugged as he set the cookie laden plates down on a nearby counter.

"Mere," Izzie bubbled, "I love your new kitchen. Look at that stove! Eight burners?" "We only use three," Meredith admitted, "four if Derek has a huge trout haul and doesn't want to grill." "And I love the bay window," she added, "and this island, the granite is gorgeous." "Derek picked it, I just wanted something that went with the cabinets."

"Wine chiller?" Lexi asked, holding up three bottles as she finished arranging Izzie's baskets. "Around the corner," Meredith told her, pointing off to her left, "where the old pantry was." "Great," Lexi called as she left the room. "Alex," Meredith said, pulling a tray from a nearby cabinet, "would you take this out to Derek, he's grilling on the deck."

Alex crossed the room, waiting beside her. "He'll need these, too," she said, scanning the shelves and placing two utensils that he scarcely recognized on the tray. "The guest room is down the main hall to the right," she reminded him quietly, out of the others' ear shot, "if you need to get away. But no orgies," she teased, placing the tray in his hands, "I just changed the sheets." He smirked, nodding gratefully as he left the room.

"Do you have a cake scoop?" Izzie asked moments later, slicing into a many layered masterpiece. "Yes," Meredith said, moving to a nearby drawer. "Can you believe this?" Izzie continued. "Ten years already?" "Amazing," Meredith agreed, "and you thought I was going to bail out all this time."

"I did not," Izzie protested, "I only thought that before the wedding." "Who would have blamed me," Meredith said, "with the doves and the horse drawn carriage?" "You're exaggerating," Izzie huffed, "it was perfect." "Yes, it was, for you and Alex."

Izzie slowed her cutting, wiping the knife as she prepared for the next dish. "Do you ever regret it, Meredith?" "Getting married?" she asked, frowning. "No," she said, "giving up your wedding, do you ever wish…" "Izzie," she interrupted, "I was thrilled when you and Alex got married." "I know" Izzie agreed, "but it was your day."

"No," Meredith replied flatly. "I had a beautiful, simple ceremony. I think it worked out best for both of us. We both got what we wanted." "Yeah," Izzie said wistfully, "and now you've got the girls, and your fabulous dream house." "The girls are holy terrors," she laughed, "and I still can't find my way around this kitchen."

"Holy terrors?" Izzie repeated sarcastically. "Some days," Meredith added half seriously, "they almost make me sympathize with my mother. "That bad?" Izzie asked, cringing. "Some days," she said. "I guess they grow out of that sweet and innocent stage pretty quick," Izzie admitted. "Faster than you can imagine," Meredith said.

"I always thought that would be us," Izzie said, nodding toward the framed picture of Meredith, Derek and their daughters above the counter. "You tried, Iz," Meredith said quietly, "you guys tried for three years." "I tried," Izzie snorted, "Alex just went along with it. And I had to fight him every step of the way."

"You don't think he wanted it too?" Meredith asked. "He didn't want any part of it," she insisted bitterly, "I guess it was too much of a commitment for him." Meredith nodded, watching Izzie closely. "I donated them two weeks ago," she said glumly, "the last four." "The last four embryos?" Meredith asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah," Izzie said, rapidly cutting into the next cake as if she were slicing carrots. "How were they even viable at this point?" Meredith asked, puzzled. "Turns out they last longer than canned tuna fish," she cracked, before matching Meredith's stunned silence. "I even had names picked out for them," she whispered.

"I always thought, maybe if it didn't work with me, we could use a surrogate, you know, someday. I thought I'd have time to change his mind. But then he got sick, and…" "Does he know?" Meredith interrupted. Izzie shook her head. "He thought I'd done it already. But I just couldn't." "You lied to him?" Meredith asked. "No, I just didn't tell him."

"It's not like he'd care, anyway," she snapped, "and now, with him being sick, it's not like it matters." "He's doing fine, Iz, I'm one of his doctors, remember. His treatment plan is working." "I know," Izzie said, "and there's no point upsetting him now, right. Let's just drop it, okay?" "Okay," Meredith said, narrowing her eyes.

"It's not like I'm missing much," Izzie added, "right? Just Christmases…" "Tantrums," Meredith filled in, shaking her head as she sampled a cookie. "Bed time stories," Izzie crooned. "Colic," Meredith reminded her. "Teaching them how to ride a bicycle," Izzie said. "Emergency room," Meredith grimaced, "stitches if you're lucky, maybe casts." "You," Izzie added, pointing her fork at her friend, "were definitely a holy terror."

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"Did you put out the recycling?" Izzie asked sharply, rousing Alex from his haze later that night. "Huh," he asked, with a sudden start, realizing they were back in their garage. "The recycling," she prodded, "It needs to go out tonight." "Oh, yeah," Alex said, barely unbuckling his seat belt by the time she'd slammed the car door shut and stalked into the house. She threw her car keys onto the kitchen counter, and began rustling through the cabinets under the sink.

It would take him forever to move the bins by himself, but he could make ten trips for all she cared. "Do we…?" Alex started, when he finally entered the kitchen. "Not now," she cut him off, tearing through the large plastic storage boxes. "Iz…?" "I said not now," she repeated, not even looking up.

Alex eyed the growing pile of supplies on the kitchen island. She wasn't baking. She wasn't chopping anything, which usually meant she was excited or anxious. She wasn't making soup, which usually meant someone was sick or she'd just spoken to her mother.

She was cleaning, which usually was just cleaning, except that she had gotten out the steamer and the industrial strength sponges, which meant either that spring was coming – which it wasn't – or that she was mad, really mad, usually at him. Steam cleaning, when it wasn't spring, was never good, and lately, was best done while he was elsewhere.

Climbing the stairs, he pushed in their bedroom door, tossing his blue jacket on a chair.

It had been colder than he expected at Mere's, and moving the recycling bins had left him dizzy and sore. He was sure he'd feel better as soon as he warmed up, but he dropped heavily onto the bed, and was asleep before he could reach for the overstuffed comforter.

He never heard the rattling from the kitchen, where Izzie scrubbed the grout lining their tile counter, which never quite came clean, and her four-burner stove with the chipped timer, which never worked quite right. Rinsing off her sponges, she hurled them into the dish rack, and began putting away her mixing bowls and measuring cups.

It was all Alex's fault, that she never had enough cabinet space, thanks to all his damn cereal boxes, and that her mix master never fit properly into the pantry, and that the floor forever harbored brownie crumbs. Furiously hauling out her broom, she wondered why she even bothered, since no amount of wax would make the faded linoleum shine again.

And of course he asked Lexi about Emily, and listened as she raved endlessly about the five year old's new tooth. Of course he was interested in other peoples' children. All he ever did was take care of other peoples' children. She'd seen him, too, with Emily Sloan after her surgery, and with all the other babies he treated.

She knew that he waited for the evening shift changes, for the day nurses to clear out, before scooping up the babies, to check their vitals, he would insist, to hold them or talk to them, she knew. All except for their own, which he wanted no part of. It was all his fault, that Kylie or Jenna or Andrew or Nicholas would never run through her kitchen.

Slamming the loaded cabinet door shut, Izzie grabbed her paper towels and some spray cleaner and began harshly polishing the chrome handles. She'd always hated them, but there was no point replacing them when the cabinets were too small to begin with. White cabinets had been fine in Mere's old house, but she wanted oak or cheery anyway, and it wasn't like they were saving for college funds or piano lessons.

But of course they couldn't get new cabinets. It was always about money with him, as if they would always have his school loans and her endless medical bills, as if Meredith and Derek even wanted to be paid back for the wedding, as if her having a child of her own wasn't worth any price - as if she could ever even imagine a home without children.

It was always about time with him, too, as if he hadn't already finished his residency, as if she hadn't cut her own training short and settled for family practice, just to pay the bills and move on with her life, as if they hadn't had all the time in the world – at least, until he got sick, and life stopped for them, while time sped on.

She tossed the worn towels into the garbage, fuming as she pictured a doll house in the den, a red bike in the driveway, a sled in the garage, a swing set out back, with a play house. Trailer parks had none of those things. They had dolls with mismatched outfits, and second-hand games with missing pieces, and dusty kick balls that didn't bounce.

Hannah deserved better than that, she deserved a home that didn't wobble in a strong wind, and that couldn't be towed away right out from under her, if that month's lot rent went to the neighborhood psychic. Hannah was much better off, Izzie reminded herself, with adoptive parents who could provide a perfect home for her.

But she could have made Kylie or Jenna or Andrew or Nicholas happy, even if their kitchen was a little cramped, and their yard had no pool, and their driveway sloped at an odd angle. She could have made a perfect home for their children, if only he'd thought of anything beyond finishing his residency, or paying the next month's mortgage, or getting new tires for the car, or having the damn roof patched again.

She deserved better, too, Izzie seethed, returning her cleaning supplies to their boxes and bins as she surveyed her work. The bright yellow kitchen was clean, at least, and free of the brownie crumbs that forever trailed behind Alex, and fine for brewing the tea that she placed on the coffee table as she settled into the couch. He could stew in his own juices; she'd be gone the next morning long before he hauled his lazy ass out of bed.

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"Damn it, Alex" Izzie yelled, "why don't you clean this mess up?" "What mess?" he snapped, looking up from the journal article he was trying to read for the third time. It was hard enough to concentrate without the racket she was making in the basement, and he was never going to get back to his practice if he didn't review the latest research.

"These!" she fumed, dropping a battered cardboard box in front of him. "They've been sitting in the same place for, what, three years now?" "They're in the basement," he insisted, "who cares if they…'"I do," she snapped. "I'm trying to find the Halloween decorations. If you're not going to help me, at least keep this junk out of the way."

"Fine," he grumbled, putting the surgical journal aside and trailing down the steps behind her. "What's the big deal with Halloween, anyway? It's just organized begging." "It is not," she insisted, "it's fun, and kids love it." "We're not kids," he noted. "Yeah," she taunted, "and it's not like we have any, right?" She watched his eyes darken over, but he let it pass. It almost made her angrier, that he wouldn't even fight.

Exhaling deeply, Izzie continued rooting through the holiday storage bins in silence, while he organized the boxes near the stairway. She pulled out large plastic pumpkins and witches, and a mummy for near the front door. But she just absently set aside the werewolf mask Alex wore the year he helped her with candy distribution, at least, until she over-heard him bluntly rating the children's costumes and doling out the goodies accordingly, blatantly favoring the more garish out-fits.

She looked up moments later to find him gone already, a slightly neater mess still spilling toward the stairs. Shaking her head, she hefted a half-squashed box toward the far corner wall, only to hear an ominous crackling sound. Peeking under the lid, she pulled out an antique pewter frame, and dusted its surface. She'd seen the picture before, of a probably seven year old Alex sitting with his mother on the porch steps of her house.

The photo had stood on his mother's bed stand; she'd seen it when they cleaned her home out after her death. Izzie remembered the house fondly, with its thick shag carpeting, and framed pictures on every wall, and books and newspapers everywhere, and an explosion of floral fabrics. The sturdy, red brick four square was warm and welcoming, much like its owner, who lived, it seemed, in her small kitchen.

He never had stored the picture properly, she noticed, nor had he done anything with the guitar with the broken strings, or the tattered Bible. That didn't surprise her; the house had sold within a week of his mother's death. She'd wanted to help him, the night of the funeral, to decide what he wanted to keep. But he prowled the house angrily, gathering legal papers and a few small boxes, and their car was loaded and ready to leave by dawn.

She never did find out what happened to the rest of her mother-in-law's things, but she remembered the woman happily. She was kind, and sweet, and shy, and nothing like she expected. "What are you doing?" Alex asked sharply, returning with several garbage bags as he pushed another wayward box back toward the wall.

"Nothing," Izzie stammered, "I heard something break, and thought it might be this." Alex glanced at the picture, then continued rounding up his mess. "How come you never put this out?" she asked. "It's old," he said. "I know that," she said, rolling her eyes as she ran her hand over it again.

"I wish I'd gotten to know her better, you know, before she lost her…" "She was better off," Alex said, "she got to forget him, to forget everything." "Why would you say that?" Izzie protested. "She loved you, and she must have been a great mom. It wasn't like she was calling psychic hot lines to improve your sex life, or anything."

Alex grimaced, shaking his head. "She was a great mom," he said, "and she deserved better." Izzie nodded, sifting through a few loose photos that clung to the bottom of the box, thinking she'd have to find a better way to preserve them, since he seemed more interested simply in keeping them off the cement floor.

"I think she forgave you, Alex, for how things went with your dad. She wasn't the type not to." "No, she wasn't," he snapped. "But I should have been there when they brought the bastard's body back." Izzie looked at a quirky jewelry box, wondering if he'd made it for her. "I don't know that I would have gone," she said quietly.

"What?" he said, looking up, plainly distracted. "If it had been my dad, I don't know if I would have gone." Izzie knew little of her own father, except that he'd call on occasion, from New Mexico or Montana or Florida, always promising her mother that he'd come home soon, always promising Izzie that red bicycle for Christmas. Izzie had long since given up on the bicycle; her mother, for all Izzie could tell, was still waiting for him.

"You'd have gone," Alex muttered, "and if your mother needed you, you'd have gone." "I don't know," Izzie said hesitantly. "I do," Alex insisted. "I don't even know if he's still alive," Izzie pointed out sarcastically, "it wasn't like he was some great family man. I guess commitment just wasn't his thing."

It came out more harshly than she'd intended, and the look he gave her might as well have been shouted. He picked up several small frames, hurling them into the closest box as he shoved it into the nearest wall. "Alex stop," she said, jumping up and grabbing his arm. "That's not what I meant." "You really want to start that crap again?" he fumed.

Izzie squeezed his arm, trying to calm him down. "Stop, okay, right now." She watched him look away, his eyes focusing on a distant wall. She'd learned how to wait these out over the years, the worst eruptions of his volatile temper, and knew better than to press him before he was ready. "That's not what I meant," she repeated softly.

She felt him gain control of his breathing, almost grateful, for a change, that his recent treatments took some of the steam out of his anger. He sat heavily on the bottom step, waiting, she knew, for his head to clear and the queasiness to pass. She sat beside him silently, weighing her words.

"Alex," she said finally, "when I was sick, I thought about Hannah a lot. Sometimes," she laughed nervously, "I almost felt like I was being punished, for giving her up. I know that's crazy, but I thought, maybe if I had another, it would be like I'd really been given another chance to live, that I'd get a clean slate."

She watched Alex's jaw twitch as he stared at the floor. "I wanted that with you," she added, "sometimes, I still want that, more than anything," she admitted, "but I don't need it to be happy." "Then why are you still so mad?" he asked sharply.

I don't get it," she said finally, frustration lacing her words. "You knew what we were doing, when we froze the embryos. I thought you wanted children with me." "I did," he said, after a stormy silence. "Then why did you…?"

"It was dangerous," he said quietly, "the fertility treatments, I didn't want to…" "You were afraid the cancer would come back?" Izzie asked. Alex nodded, looking at his hands. "I figured we got lucky enough, you know, when you got better."

"Is that why you didn't want to use a surrogate, too?" she demanded harshly, waiting as he avoided her eyes. "I wasn't sure you'd be okay," he said, after another long silence. "And if anything happened to you," he stammered, "I knew I couldn't do it by myself."

"Raise a child?" she demanded. "You died on me twice, Iz," he whispered, his voice trembling, "if anything happened to you…" "It wasn't you fault," he added, "it wasn't like…" "You thought I gave up," she reminded him harshly. "I didn't mean that," he said hesitantly. "Yes, you did," she snapped.

Alex sat motionless, his face burning red. He remembered that fight; her begging him to let her go; most of all, he remembered the raw fear, the kind he'd felt when he was a kid, when the door slammed shut, alerting him that his father was home, and the lock clicked from the inside, and he knew there was no where left to run. It almost made him sick.

"The kid would have had just me," he noted, his words struggling to get out, "if anything happened…" "That's crap, Alex," Izzie sputtered. "I was scared, too. All the time. But I was willing to try, with you." He couldn't look at her, couldn't quite breathe, couldn't quite get his hands to stop shaking or his eyes to focus.

"You'd have been a great dad," Izzie said bitterly, after a long silence, standing abruptly. "You don't know that," he whispered. "Yes, I do," she snapped, seething as she picked up her decorations and resumed her task. "You're a coward, and a lousy husband," she spat, "but you'd have been a great dad."

She stalked away, trailing a deafening silence in her wake, like the tornados that swept through Iowa when he was a kid, like the one that ripped his parents' first house right off its foundation. He remembered that day with a perverse glee, watching his bastard father pick through the wreckage of a rage against which he was the defenseless one. It was worth being homeless again, for months, just to see the fucker crawl.

He didn't notice his shivering in the chilly basement, or his eyes burning as he leaned against the rail; he'd lived in colder places before, in bars and gyms and even in his car; he'd watched frozen as everything was ripped from him before; he'd been fighting for his life for as long as he could remember; he just never won. Too tired to stand, or to imagine anything beyond the next ten minutes, he slept on the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dr. Karev," the pretty blond receptionist greeted, smiling warmly. "Dr. Grey-Shepherd is finishing a consultation down stairs. She should be back in a few minutes. Would you care to wait in her office?" "Sure" Alex repeated, briefly returning her smile as he followed her into the room. It had been a while since he thought of himself as a doctor.

Sitting in his usual seat, he eyed Mere's awards, and the framed journal covers touting the Grey-Shepherd methods for tumor resection. He knew she was working on a major publication, and would soon be starting another clinical trial. He wondered if it burned Yang that Mere had out-paced all of them, even the would-be cardio goddess herself.

"Alex," Meredith said, briskly entering the room with a fresh set of films, "you just get here?" "Yeah," he said, pointing to one of the framed articles behind her, "I was checking out that citation." "Oh, that's nothing. You should see this." He raised his eyebrows, following her to the lighted screen beside her desk as she motioned for him to join her.

Alex scanned the x-ray, his eyes widening. "Did he walk in like that? He should be blind in his left eye by now, right?" he asked, frowning. "That," she nodded, "and paralyzed on his left side." "Can you cut?" Alex asked, eyeing the images in more detail. "Here" she pointed, "and here, and here. We're going to go in from several angles, but we'll get it."

"Cool," Alex said, returning to his chair as she flipped through his file. "I had your labs run twice," she told him, "and had Derek look over your films, and had our Chief of Hematology review your blood work. It still looks good," she said. "Any chance I could go back to work part time?" he interrupted, almost wincing at her incredulous expression. "I know," he grumbled, "No working, no running, no driving…"

Meredith giggled as he repeated the litany, before growing serious again. "Actually," she said, almost hesitantly, "I want to add two new drugs to your protocol. You're doing fine," she emphasized, "but I've been reviewing this new regimen with our oncologists, and I think it could knock the cancer out completely."

Alex studied her face closely, knowing that tone. "And?" he prodded. "You'd have to be on it for another year." "Another year?" he repeated blankly. "I know that sounds awful," she said, "and there are no guarantees. But I think it's your best shot." He picked at his fingers, bile rising in his throat. "How bad?" he asked finally.

"The side effects won't be much worse then what you've got now. That's not great" she admitted "but better than the alternatives." "You think?" he snorted bitterly, glaring out the office window. Meredith waited, signing some papers while he stewed in his seat. "When?" he asked, after an awkward silence. "Tuesday," she said, so quickly that he did a double take. "I know you," she shrugged, a smile teasing her lips, "you won't give up. I already made the first appointment." Alex rolled his eyes. "And I'll still want to see you every month."

"Every month" Alex echoed mechanically. "Every month," she repeated, "that's what you get for settling for pro bono work." Alex smirked, meeting her eyes. "Films and labs," she reminded him sternly. He nodded, a shy smile flickering across his face as she pointed her pen at him. "Besides," she added, "Izzie would insist. Is she working today?"

He shrugged reluctantly. "Last week too, huh?" she asked. "I took a cab," he grumbled, "I'm not driving." "Does she know you're here?" she asked quietly. "She has a job," he reminded her, "she has a life, she has better things to do than chauffer me around." He avoided her eyes, too tired to argue, just like he was too shaky to drive, and too scared to run away, and too distracted to notice when she repeated her next question.

"What'd you do now?" Meredith smirked. "I don't know," he said. It was a half truth; he'd never lie to Mere, but lately he could only stomach truth in small doses. "It must have happened at the party. She's been crazy ever since." "Izzie crazy," Meredith asked cautiously, "or mad crazy?" "Pissed," he said flatly. "I told you no orgies in my guest room." "Like I could stay awake through a decent orgy," Alex groused, shaking his head. "Are you sure it's you?" she asked, watching as he raised his eye brows.

"Right, it's always you. Did you ask her?" "I think she can't take this anymore," he said, pulling at the crumpled receipt from the cab as he twisted it in his hands. "I can't work. I can't drive… I can't do anything…" "Alex," she interrupted, "We're winning, this new protocol will work, and you'll be fine." "Izzie and me might not be," he stammered, lowering his eyes.

It made him queasy, hearing it out loud. "Those Emily?" he asked suddenly, pointing to the photos on her desk, desperate to change the subject. "Yeah," she said, handing them to him. "Lexi likes to keep you updated. She was so grateful when you did Emily's surgery." "It was a simple procedure," he said, scanning the pictures, "looks like a Grey alright."

"It wasn't a simple procedure to them," she said, "and Emily is a Sloan, remember?" "She'll overcome that," he asserted, "those Grey chicks are tough." "I hope so," Meredith said, following his lead. "Lexi's still got Thatcher to deal with." "How's he doing?" Alex asked. "The drinking didn't help, but it's progressing slowly," she shrugged. "Does he still know who you are?" Alex asked. "Yes," she snapped, "and I still know who he is."

Alex nodded, waiting. "No lectures?" she asked. "Me?" he smirked. She retrieved the photos and slipped them into her desk. "Lexi wants me to visit him more," she said, "so does Derek." Alex listened quietly, watching her pick at her fingernails. "It's just going to get worse. Even if I stop hating him," she said. "That where you want to leave it?" he asked. "I thought you weren't giving advice?" Meredith said. "I'm not," he replied.

"It sounds like you think I should see him," Meredith challenged, "he's not worth it." "That's what I thought, too," he remarked, after a long silence. "What'd you do?" she asked carefully. "Not enough," he said, "and then it was too late." "I thought you weren't giving advice," she pointed out. "I'm not," he shrugged, rising slowly from his chair.

"You'll work it out," she said, standing up with him, "with Izzie. Whatever it is, you guys always work it out." "I know," he said nervously. "I mean it," she reminded him, "every month, or I'll hunt you down and draw the freaking blood myself." "I get it," he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "every month, to the day."

------------------------------

Alex slammed the weights down on the cross bars, struggling to the bathroom in the basement as he vomited his lunch into the toilet. Lifting to failure had its down sides, but it was a quick way to restore muscle mass. His arms still trembled as he lay on the cold tile floor, shivering through his damp dark tee shirt. After all the drugs burning through his veins, and with more coming, he almost welcomed a different kind of pain.

He heard the lawn mower in the distance, and cursed the time, hoping the kid he hired would be finished before Izzie got home. He intended to do it himself, to at least cut his own grass and yank his own weeds. But he'd just started Mere's new treatment protocol, and after four days of work, he was still dragging around the yard and not even half way through, and the weeds were winning, and he knew that Izzie was losing patience.

He rinsed out his mouth, grateful at least that this sickness was self-induced, unlike the wracking nausea that Izzie had endured during her treatments, or the surgeries that had laid her up for weeks. Wiping his face with a towel, he crossed to the other side of the basement, pulling a small box down from a corner shelf.

He was still rooting through it when Izzie's voice broke his concentration. "Alex," she said, suspiciously eying how lightly he was dressed, "what are you doing?" "Looking for something," he mumbled, continuing to rummage. "I can see that," she said, surveying the mess on the table in front of him.

Peeking over his shoulder, she saw old papers and photos in small stacks, and a battered crate full of the wrestling trophies that usually lined the wall of his gym. "This," he said finally, digging out a wrinkled photo from his stash. Izzie looked at it curiously, but it was faded and crackled, and she could scarcely make out who, or what, it was.

Moving closer, she noticed its tattered edges, as if it had been carried often and casually, in a jacket pocket, or a backpack. "Is that…your mom?" Izzie asked, puzzling to make out the faint image. "Yeah," Alex said sharply, "he's got his arm around her."

"I used to use this," he said, staring at it intently, though the picture was faded almost beyond recognition, "when I was training for wrestling, when I thought I couldn't lift one more pound, or run one more mile, I'd look at him, what he did to her…" he trailed off. "I almost killed him. I think I would have if she hadn't been there," he added softly.

"I don't think you mean that," Izzie said carefully. "He was useless," he snapped, "she did everything for him, he couldn't even hold a freaking job, couldn't even clean up after himself. I thought she'd be better off." "Alex," she interrupted, "I think your mom loved him. Whether that was right or wrong…" "She didn't," he insisted, "She got married, and they had a kid, and she was stuck with him, and she couldn't leave, because of me."

"That wasn't your fault. Your mother was sick." "No she wasn't," he retorted bitterly, "he made her that way." "Alex," she said, "your mother…" "My mother would have been fine, if it hadn't been for him." "Alex…" she interrupted, touching his arm.

He pulled away abruptly, his chair scraping the cement floor beneath him. "She said he was sick," he added incredulously. "That's why she stayed with him. That's why she let him… That's why he…that's why he…" he struggled to catch his breath, as his voice died in his throat, "she said he was sick."

"Maybe he was," she said hesitantly. "He was useless," Alex spat, "he ruined her life." "Because she took care of him?" Izzie asked, puzzled. "She shouldn't have done that. She shouldn't have had to do that," he insisted, "that was his job, to take care of her." "I couldn't do it," he rambled, "not like she deserved. That was his job, and he blew it."

Izzie stood beside him, watching him shiver in the chilly basement, as she groped for words, for anything to distract him, to prevent him from unraveling further. "Why did you take these down?" she asked suddenly, motioning to the trophies tossed haphazardly in the crate beside her. "More motivation," he said, as if it was obvious, "I get them back when I can bench fifty for thirty reps."

"You won't be able to do that for at least a year," she pointed out, "and Meredith would be pissed if she thought you were jeopardizing your treatment plan." He glared at her, almost pulling away until she pushed him back down into his seat, much harder than she intended. "I can't even do five," he whispered, his face burning red.

"You'll get better, Alex. It may not feel like that now, but Meredith wouldn't lie to you." "You talked to her?" he demanded. "She told me," Izzie said reluctantly, "She didn't know you hadn't talked to me yet." Alex turned away, his eyes burning. "You shouldn't be down here like this," she muttered, running her hand along his back as he shivered.

"I can't even stay awake through the freaking news," he insisted, pulling away from her, "and now I've got another year of this? How am I going to get back to being a surgeon?"

he rambled. "You'll get better" she insisted fiercely, "Meredith said…" "She said another year," he stammered, "another year of…"

"Alex," she said nervously, reaching for him again. "I'm sorry," he whispered finally, still trembling. "For what?" she said. "I was supposed to protect you, to take care of you. That's all I wanted… It… he destroyed her. She did nothing but take care of him, and it destroyed her. And now you're stuck…"

"I'm not stuck," Izzie protested, "I love you, remember?" He shrank away from her, his hands still shaking as he struggled to form the words. "That doesn't mean you should stay." "You want me to leave?" she asked incredulously. "She should have left," he muttered, staring back at the picture. "Or he should have left her. If was half a man, he…" "Alex, stop," she said.

"What?" he demanded, "you told me I was no better than half a man. Now I'm not even that. Now I'm…" "Now you're being an ass," she accused. "That's me," he sneered, "but you knew that when we got into the mess." "What mess?" "This mess," he said, waving his hands around him, "us." "We're not a mess," she asserted, weighing her words.

"Iz…," he said hesitantly. "Did you think I would leave you?" she asked, half-stunned and half-infuriated. He slumped miserably in his chair, placing the photo in front of him, an icy silence surrounding him. "I should want you to leave," he whispered finally, "I should…" "But you don't?" she asked softly. He shook his head, looking away from her. "I need you too, Alex," she said, after another long silence, "I always will."

He was shivering harder, and flinched when she touched him. "You came back," she said quietly, "for the tests, for the waiting, when the bills came, after all our fights after your residency..." She almost chuckled, shaking her head. "I could feel your hand shaking, sometimes, before I'd wake up after my surgeries, but I could feel it holding mine."

Struggling to get his hands under control, he fumbled with the pictures that littered the table, clumsily shoveling them back into their boxes. "I was scared, too" she added, stopping his arms, "but I wasn't alone." He sat frozen, watching as she tossed the last photos in with the others and shoved the box back against the wall. "Come on," she said finally, grabbing the crate of trophies, "I'm putting these back where they belong."

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"You're not watching that again," Izzie groaned, walking into their living room the following week. "It's not Jurassic Park Eight," he said sleepily, it's a documentary." "It's about who would win a fight between tyrannosaurus and triceratops," she corrected him. "You're four years old." "I am not," he protested, his eyes lighting up when he spied the plate she was carrying.

"You so are," she giggled, "you're more excited to see these brownies than you are to see your hot wife." "Not true," he objected, reaching eagerly toward the plate. "Napkin," she reminded him, taking one herself and dropping onto the couch next to him. "Oh, gross," she exclaimed, watching as a small dinosaur had its arm ripped off and swallowed whole.

"But look at the wound," he said, "that's a clean cut. The vessels are probably intact. Even the nerves could be spared if ..." "Operated on many baby triceratops have you?" "Not lately," he groused. "You're on medical leave. You'll go back when you're ready." "Right," he said, settling back into the sofa as she slid her arms around him. "At least you get to be a surgeon," she added.

"You like family practice," he said. "I do," she admitted, "but sometimes I wonder if…"

"You're a great doctor, Iz, Your patients love you." "Not as much as yours," she teased, laughing as his head snapped up, before he awkwardly looked away. "It's okay that you like kids, Alex, you do work with them." He eyed her suspiciously, waiting.

"I don't mean anything like that," she said, rolling her eyes. "I just mean, it wasn't what you'd planned. You wanted plastics." "I just wanted out," Alex shrugged, "I wanted to make enough money to…" "to what,?" Izzie asked, after he paused.

He didn't really know. He'd always just wanted out, away from the loser who couldn't even keep them one step ahead of the next week's bills, or the eviction notices that came like clockwork, propped under the beer bottles. He wanted out, just to get away, even if it meant living in a gym, or his car, or the crappy back room of Joe's bar.

"To take care of my mom," he said finally. "After your dad left?" "He didn't exactly leave," he reminded her. "I'm sure she forgave you," Izzie repeated softly. Alex ignored her, staring at the floor with a shy half smile. "She loved you," he added, "I knew she would." "Of course she did, mothers always love me. Plus we bakers stick together."

"She hated baking," Alex insisted, "she did it for him." "You're nothing like him," Izzie said. "And you would have been a great dad," she repeated. "Iz,… he said, shifting away from her. "It's okay," she interrupted him, grabbing his arm, "I don't want to fight about that anymore. I just…" "I couldn't think like that," he protested, "not when you were… I couldn't think about anything but just the next day."

"I know," she said, "me too." Alex looked at her warily. "I thought about it, too," she admitted. "What if we had a kid and then I got sick again, or ..." "That didn't happen," he said quickly. "No," she said, "but I thought about it. Even when I switched residencies, I thought, why not, I might not have much time, anyway."

Alex sat motionless, his stomach fluttering. "I always thought I'd have kids," she said, "I felt cheated. That's why I was so mad." He eyed her carefully, his jaw twitching. "You were mad at me too," she pointed out, ignoring his glum expression. "Sometimes I think you were ready to smother me with a pillow," she teased.

"And cut off my brownie supply?" he asked, after an awkward silence. "Is that all I am to you?" she griped. "No," he said, "I like your cup cakes, too." "Well, you're never getting either again if you keep this up." "Iz," he objected, "you know I could never imagine a future without you." "That is such a line," she groaned. "Is it working?" "Never," she huffed, sliding her arms back around him and kissing him softly.

"Alex," she asked suddenly, trying to ignore the dinosaur drama on the television, "are you happy we stayed in Seattle?" "Yeah, I guess" he shrugged, puzzled, already too worn out to field her random questions, especially so late in the day. "Our jobs are here, well, yours…" he grumbled, "our friends are here, your mother's not too far. Weather sucks," he added, "the Seahawks will never have a quarter-back. Why?" he asked, abruptly breaking off his impromptu evaluation.

"I drove past Maple Street today," she giggled. "It wasn't that bad," Alex muttered. "You could barely stand up in the shower," she said, picturing the tiny bathroom in their first apartment, wedged awkwardly beneath a heating vent. "You were in there with me often enough," he smirked. "I was trying to get away from the spiders," she teased.

"And the floorboards squeaked," she continued. "I fixed those." "The shower tiles were always falling off…" she noted. "I replaced those, like I did here." "Don't remind me," she laughed, recalling their first months in their home, a run down blue Craftsman with peeling paint, mismatched wall paper, squeaky kitchen cabinets, and an overgrown yard.

"You loved it the first time you saw it," he insisted, tracing his fingers along her jaw as he kissed her. "I was just moving to get away from the spiders. I thought you were crazy for wanting to buy this place." "I wanted us to have a house as soon as we could afford something," he shrugged. "I wanted to get you a ring, too,"

"I liked the first ring, you know, and the gum ball that came with it." "Very funny," he muttered, "and you weren't much help." "You take that back. You think those flower beds just sprung up from nothing?" "Fancy weeds," he taunted. "And what about the fire place I painted?" "I liked it better before," he smirked. "Right, when we couldn't even decide what color it was." "Long as the oven works, I'm happy," he pointed out.

"You never thought of living anywhere else?" she asked "No, why?" he asked, baffled by her sudden interest in geography. "No reason," she shrugged. "But one of our nurses just signed up for a travel service. She's going to Alaska for six months. "Ugh," he grimaced, shivering at the thought. "Okay, bad example, but they had other postings. She could've to Cairo." "Camels stink," Alex commented, shaking his head.

"Or New Mexico," she added. "Aliens," he frowned. "Now you sound like my mother," Izzie pointed out. "You're just jealous because she likes me better." "She thinks Elvis is alive," Izzie retorted, "not real sound judgment there." "Really," she asked, "you never think about living anywhere else. "No," he said, "do you?" "I guess not," she said, "it just sounded so exotic, so adventurous."

"We could become nurses," he yawned, "and go with her." "I could be a nurse," Izzie said smugly, "you're not charming enough." "I'm charming," he said, kissing her neck. "Not that kind of charming," she giggled, "you'd still want to play doctor." "I might have to become a nurse, at this rate…"

"Don't be silly," she protested, "they'd never hire you as a nurse. And the hospital couldn't use you otherwise. You'd make a lousy janitor. You know how many crumbs I swept off the kitchen floor?" "I cleaned those up." "Only if you're trying to attract mice," she corrected him. "We don't have mice, the spiders ate them."

Izzie laughed, tugging him closer, "the only one I want you playing doctor with is me, remember?" See," he said, "you can't keep your hands off me. I am charming." "A real prince," she said, rolling her eyes. "That's more like it." "Right," she snorted, "a prince who leaves a trail of brownies crumbs everywhere he goes?"

"You make them for me," he pouted. "You're right," she giggled, "it's all my fault. I never should have expected a prince when I married a frog anyway" "Very reassuring," he grumbled, as she slid her arms more tightly around him, nibbling his ear. "That's cheating," he protested, suppressing a sleepy groan. "I know," she said, "that's why I do it." Shifting carefully, she felt his breathing slowing as he settled closer into her.

"How many today?" she asked. "Nine reps," he mumbled sleepily. "That's great," she said, "it's a few more than last week." "Um-hum," he nodded as she pulled a nearby blanket around him. "You'll do even better tomorrow," she assured him, lightly kissing his hair as he drifted off. She knew that wouldn't seem like much to him, but that was all cancer usually allowed, a few more unsteady steps, a few more months of waiting.

"Enough dinosaurs," she muttered under head breath, rolling her eyes as she picked up the television remote. Checking the time, she knew that he'd be asleep for an hour or so, time enough for her to catch the Travel Channel special on Malta. She'd already seen it three times, but she loved fantasizing about the wide sandy beaches and the expansive blue seas. It would have been the perfect place for a honeymoon.

--------------------------------

"You really are four years old," Izzie taunted, catching him before he could turn the DVD off. "You're just a snob," he insisted. "Really?" Izzie asked, leaning over him. "Um-huh," he nodded, sighing as she kissed his neck. "What was that?" she prodded, her lips wandering behind his ear as she lay beside him on the plush carpeting.

"Snob," he repeated, inhaling sharply, "besides, it was a Christmas present from my wife." "You're married?" she asked incredulously. "A four year old who watches dinosaur movies?" "It's a classic," he insisted. "Is your wife pretty?" she taunted. "Hot," he said, smiling dreamily as she returned to his neck, "but she's kind of a prude." "A prude?" Izzie huffed.

He moaned softly, and though somewhat drowsy, could feel himself sinking, into space, or into sleep, he couldn't quite tell which, although the feeling was definitely desirable. He was vaguely aware of changes in the textures against his skin, of being unwrapped or unraveled completely, her hands and her lips trailing leisurely down his body, her skilled fingers skimming his thighs, burrowing deeply into his trembling flesh, her lips following with agonizing slowness, until his senses shattered around him.

She felt him shudder beneath her, a satisfied smirk teasing her lips as she curled lazily around him. It had been her job of late, to initiate their love making, and to do most of the work, a task complicated by his recent need to sleep layered in flannel and fleece. He'd be fine though, with the luxurious carpeting beneath them, and the crackling fire that still bathed the room in a faint glow, and the huge down comforter she pulled around them.

Gently testing the warmth of his skin, her hands trailed a familiar topography, long ago mapped for the spots that made him laugh, or moan, or sigh. She traced her fingers over his chest, and down his sides, gently settling on the slight spare tire that had clung to him since he finished his residency, the fault, he insisted, entirely of her brownies.

"Hmm, working on it," he mumbled sleepily, sighing as she gathered him closer, while she tried not to giggle. He'd been self-conscious about it, especially after Cristina goaded him to play Santa Claus at Seattle Grace's annual party. But she welcomed the solid feel of his body, his comfortable bulk reassuring her that the cancer wasn't eating him alive.

She was thankful, too, that at least it left his skin unmarked, his torso smooth and supple beneath her hands. She'd envied that once, long ago, his body so different from her own, forever lined from innumerable surgeries, as if carved by a drunken map maker.

She'd been furious with him, the first year of their marriage, that amid the waiting and the appointments and the bills, he'd been so very careful of her beast. All she wanted from him then was to make her forget, to drive out the lingering fear and pain, to free the beast that cancer had caged in a hospital bed, to prove that she was really alive and well.

But his hands were too fumbling and his fingers too delicate and his lips too slow – too careful of the scars – as if he feared she'd spill open like a fragile rag doll. She'd seen him wince when she instinctively recoiled from any touch too close to a recent wound, and watched as he learned to move too precisely, around the patches of her body that she surrendered to her disease.

Brushing her fingers through his hair, she noted that it was longer than hers had been, the night of their wedding, the night it hit her full force, that till death do us part might prove less a vow or a cliché than the next day's event, the night she'd seen it in him for the first time – raw, animal fear, as palpable as her own.

It made no sense, really, how sure she'd been, that he would survive, if only he kept his hair. She survived without her own, long after the night it came off right in his hands, the night he told her she was beautiful. She was sure that he was lying, even as he tugged her scarf off to see for himself. But his eyes were on hers, and he kissed her anyway, and he found his way, eventually, through the tubes and the wires.

She found it funny, sometimes, that they'd fought about cancer even before she had it, the day he told her he wanted her rack, but wanted her more. Almost giggling, she touched his face where she slapped him for that so long ago. She'd never fall for a line like that, not after she got pregnant at sixteen; that was a line that would work on her mother, who paid fortune tellers with rent money and blew food budgets on magic beans.

She was sure that was why he married her, that it was some sick ruse for the sick chick. But months went by, months of bandages and drains and toxins, and his unsteady hand still clasped hers, and he prowled her room like a caged lion, and he came back after that first fight, and every day after that one, and he paced beside her, waiting, and sometimes, he still looked at her like he had the day he promised her he'd be ready for anything.

Sliding her hands gently along his back, she lingered over a familiar smooth spot between his shoulder blades. Despite her detailed explorations, she never had quite settled if this particular motion was prone to make him giggle, or moan, or sigh, but it always drew him closer, his head tucked snugly against her chest as he dozed, purring contentedly.

She wondered if it would come back, her own cancer, and where she'd keep him then, if the rack he was resting against ended up in a hospital incinerator, as so much of her had the first time, and if he could still sleep there so comfortably, amid a new mass of scars.

She wondered that a lot, since she knew cancer so intimately - almost better than she knew herself - since she'd been fighting it for over a decade, as it devoured her dreams.

She wondered, but her answer always came back the same. He'd do what he always did; he'd rant and roar and pace and prowl, even as his trembling hands reached in through the tubes and the wires and around the scars, and found her again.

--------------------------------

"You can't be serious," Alex grumbled, fidgeting as Izzie straightened his tie. "I told you," she insisted, "my mother wanted to see exactly how we looked on the day of the wedding. I've always wanted her to see it," she sighed, "and this will be perfect. And you like my mother, right?"

"Yeah, sure" he nodded, scanning the yard from their back deck, "but her friends are kind of weird." "So are ours," Izzie pointed out, stepping back to review her work. "Yeah, but that psychic chick…" "She a seer," Izzie corrected, "and she's very nice. Why don't you have her read your future?" "I don't want to know," he muttered. "I hope you're not referring to me," Izzie insisted, gripping his tie again.

"Iz," he smirked, "how could I mean that?" "Oh, shut up," she teased, moving in to kiss him. "Hey, you got us in trouble for doing that last time, remember? Kissing the groom before it was official." "We're already married," she pointed out, "we're just renewing our vows. And don't get any ideas. The first marriage is still in effect." "Are you kidding?" he smirked, "bail on a hot bride who still can't keep her hands off me?"

"Oh, please," Izzie scoffed, "if you keep this up, I'll let my mother's friends have you." "You wouldn't," he groaned. "No?" she asked, "two of them have already asked me if you're that doctor from Millerville General." "Where?" Alex asked. "It's from a soap opera they all watch." "They don't know that I'm a real doctor?" Alex demanded." "Oh, they know," she shook her head, "they just think their soap is real, too."

Alex raised a single eyebrow. "Seriously," she replied, fixing her hair piece as Cristina and Meredith approached. "Hey," Meredith said, eyeing Alex's tie, "much better this time. "Yeah," Cristina taunted, "you didn't have to drag him by it." "Cristina," Meredith giggled. "Are you sure about this, Izzie?" Cristina asked, "I mean, once was bad enough. But marrying Evil Spawn again?" "I'm sure," Izzie nodded, smiling shyly.

"Oh," Izzie said, "there's my mom with the Presider." "The Presider?" Cristina repeated. "Don't ask," Alex said quickly. "And don't let them look at your palms. And they're seers," he reported, "not psychics, or whack jobs." Meredith giggled. "Whose idea was that?" "Izzie's mom," he said, warily eying his mother-in-law and her friends. "They came down in two vans." "Like the Scooby mobile?" Cristina drawled out sarcastically.

"Almost," Alex nodded. "Well," Meredith interrupted, "I think it's great that you guys are renewing your vows. Derek and I are thinking of doing it too, on our land, now that the house is renovated and the girls are getting older. We'd love for them to see it." "Not me," Cristina said, shaking, her head, "with me and Owen, it was quick and dirty and once was plenty. "Too much information, Yang," Alex said, laughing with Meredith.

"Cristina, it looks like Izzie wants you over there, I guess we're about to get started," Meredith said. "Great," Cristina said, "the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can drink." "Ever the romantic," Meredith noted as Cristina walked away. "Look who's talking," Alex teased. "Hey," she protested, checking his tie one last time, "I'm a married mother of two." "Miracle," he muttered, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

"This is a miracle," she teased, motioning around her. "That Izzie hasn't killed me, yet?" "No," she laughed, "that you're getting married twice, and to the same person each time." "Right," he agreed, scanning the small gathering, "I just hope this one doesn't involve chicken sacrifices." "You'd do that for Izzie," Meredith teased, watching his face flush and his jaw twitch. "She'd do it for you, too," she reminded him, taking his arm. "They may have already taken care of that," he noted.

"I'm happy for you guys, Alex," Meredith said softly, knitting her fingers through his, "That everything worked out so well, that you…" "I know," he said, squeezing her hand. "And thanks," he added, "for…for, being my best man again." "That's me," she smiled.

"You happy enough to clear me to go back to work part time?" he asked. "I told you already," she insisted, "we'll check you again in three months. If I see one speck on one scan, you're continuing the infusion protocol for another year after this. I'm not taking any chances with you." "Fine," he grumbled, knowing the answer was coming anyway.

"And look at it this way, you can even have a honeymoon this time." "Yeah," he said, "we can watch the six o'clock news together. I can almost make it through the weather now." She laughed, listening as the ceremony started. "It's working, Alex, that's all that matters, right?" Yeah," he said, watching as Izzie beamed at him from across the yard.

"You were right," Izzie acknowledged hours later, after the party had broken up, and they were alone again in front of the fireplace on a warm, mid summer evening, "my mother's friends are crazy." "You're just jealous because they like me better than you," he said, nuzzling her neck as he kissed her softly. "That's so not true," Izzie insisted, "mothers always like me best." "Um-huh," he nodded, curling more tightly around her.

"Besides, my mother talks to psychics." "Seers," he reminded her. "Oh, shut up," she objected, stroking his face as she waited for him to doze off. "You know, you never took me dancing after our first wedding, either." "You would have tripped over your IV," he noted.

"You're the one with two left feet," she insisted, "remember Lexi's wedding. I could barely walk for a week after that, and I never did get your foot prints off my shoes."

"The music sucked," he protested, "Who could dance to that?" "Oh, I don't know," Izzie speculated, "someone with, say, rhythm." "I've got rhythm, you just can't keep up with me." "Right," Izzie said, "me, and modern music, and anyone else on a dance floor."

"Whatever," he sighed tiredly, "dancing's lame anyway."

Izzie pulled him closer, rolling her eyes as she remembered the weddings her mother's friends would discuss as they got their nails done, the celebrity events in the magazines that she paged through while waiting, sitting on the salon floor as a young girl, wide eyed at the gowns with sequins and lace, the elaborate flowers and the many tiered cakes.

Her first wedding had been something like that, with a perfect dress, an orchard of flowers, and a canopy of lights. But her dream brides were never bald, and they never wore toy rings in place of diamonds, or honey-mooned in hospitals.

Her dream weddings always occurred on the first day of a future stretching as far as she could imagine, with a fearless prince who promised her forever; they never included a groom frantically clutching a wrinkled DNR order, or snugly stashed in a down comforter on a warm June night, dozing peacefully against her chest, with brownie crumbs still on his lips. She delicately brushed them away, kissing him softly as he stirred beside her.

"You missed the weather," she teased, "My wedding day, and you missed the weather." "Least I'm ambulatory," he retorted. "I was ambulatory," Izzie protested, "just woozy when I came down the aisle." "I thought you were going to change your mind," he said, wrapping his arms more tightly around her. "The first time or the second?" she giggled.

"Actually," she reported, "I got my future read today." "Let me guess, we got the lovers card again." "Nope," she replied, "But Gladys Meyers said I'm going to meet my prince soon." "Really," he said smugly, "anybody I know?" "Definitely not," Izzie said, poking him gently, "most princes can control their Brownie consumption." "You make them for me," he pouted, sighing deeply as she curled around him.

"Of course I do," she said, "I like you like this." "You do, huh?" "Can't keep my hands off you, remember?" she said, stroking his back. "Why now, Iz?" he asked. "Why what?" she asked. "Renewing our vows. We could have waited until next spring or something, like you always wanted. We could have even done like a real honeymoon, maybe."

"This is a real honeymoon," she retorted. "Looks more like our living room," he pointed out." "It's the company," she said smugly, "not the destination." "Where'd you get that line from?" he chuckled. "Where'd you get your first vows from?" she teased, eyeing him suspiciously. "Fine," he said. "But really, why not wait until we're more, you know, until I'm…" "Cured?" Izzie asked quietly. "Until I can make it through the weather report."

"I think it's better this way," she said quietly, "when we know why we're doing it." "You do?" "Yeah," she said, brushing his hair with her fingers, "I do." "Now, seriously, where did you get those first vows?" "Iz," he said, rolling his eyes. "I know how to make you talk, Alex," she reminded him, slipping her hands dangerously beneath his ribs.

"That's cheating," he protested weakly. "I know," she said, shifting carefully, "that's why I do it." "Um-huh," he murmured, sighing as her hands tracked slowly up along his back, lingering over the soft spot between his shoulders. Definitely warm enough, she decided, as his breathing steadied and he drifted off again. "Welcome home, Alex" she whispered, her lips brushing his hair as he settled in where he belonged.


End file.
